


B-Sides

by Argyle



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Christmas, Fic Exchange, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bloody view is bloody vile for bloody miles and bloody miles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	B-Sides

So it had come to this: fourteen blazers tossed to the kerb, seven pairs of shoes (three black, three brown, and one ivory) kicked to the gutter, and twenty silk ties—so recently steamed—scattered like ticker-tape in the wind. All of it filthy, saturated with grime and oil and fuck knew what else. Probably ruined. Certainly unwearable.

Litton scooped up one of the blazers and began to swish it about with quick, deliberate flicks of his wrists. For all his luck, there might well be a bull lurking round, ready to trounce through the velvet and send him flying.

"Archie!"

Oh, but a word formed by that wretched, simpering voice was enough to make his ears bleed.

And then, a bit louder as the simpered wretch herself leaned out from the third floor window: " _Archie_. I've had enough!"

"You can't chuck me," Litton called back. Stomped a foot. Took a long, deep breath and pushed a stray lock of hair back from his temple. "D'you hear? I _live_ here."

"You haven't a prayer! Out at all hours, then rumbling inside like a bloody elephant. Stinking of perfume and sick—" here Litton's carefully restored pre-war vanity chest came flying down (so swiftly, and who would've guessed) and crashed on the pavement, followed by a satchel of police records and half-finished _Gazette_ word jumbles and – what was it? – ah, another blazer "—always pissed. Just like your dad."

On the slick cobbles, Old Spice merged with Blue Stratos and Paco Rabanne. The sheer horror. The _nerve_. He'd not stand for this. He was a police officer. A DCI, for Christ's sake. He made the rules, he made his own decisions, he was not subject to the whim of some henpecking hag with curlers strung so tight as to likely catch radio waves from Leeds. Hell, she could probably hear straight to Red Square. _Soyuz nerushimy respublik svobodnykh..._

The window slammed shut.

Litton sucked in a breath. "Mum!"

Some blocks away, a siren began to wail. He shuddered. He'd always hated Christmas.

***

So it was CID's boozer. What of it?

The place was warm if not foul-smelling, dry if dim, and most captivatingly, full of alcohol. It was also empty. Litton sidled up to the bar, selected the most prominent stool, and plunked himself down, setting aside the wilted cardboard box which contained all the clothing and cufflinks he'd managed to salvage from the street. "Hello?" he called. "No? No one working? I might've known… Lazy by association. I'll just serve myself then, shall I?"

There was a click, and in a moment, a low, thrumping melody began to eke out from unseen speakers. Litton began to drum his fingertips on the bar top. Then he stopped.

The barman stood before him, damp towel in hand. "What's your poison, mon brave?"

Litton took a long moment to weigh his options. He told himself this: that prickling sensation in the pit of his gut, the one that set him on edge and never failed to alert him to danger, blag or bust? It wasn't a prickling sensation. It was just indigestion. If bloody Hunt and his pack of numbskulls—that blasted upstart Tyler first among them—could stomach the Railway Arms, so too could he. It wasn't like he'd gone native. So then. Vodka, gin... Blue Nun. "Whisky," he said. "Large."

"Aye, that'll keep you warm." But the barman was as stiff as a sodding statue. He tilted his head, leaning forward a little, and asked, "Rough night, Mr. Litton?"

The name skid from his lips like a stone across still water. Oh, of course he had likely seen Litton's picture in the papers. And sure, the remarkable prowess of RCS ought to have been all but household knowledge. He was a fucking legend.

But he didn't pander to the public.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"This time of year… It don't sit well with some. Those that have lost. Those that have yet to find."

"Is soothsaying a part of your job description? Or did it rub off? Maybe a condition contracted from hanging round this sorry hole? Sounds _unpleasant_."

The barman smiled. "What say I make it an extra large?"

"Leave the bottle."

Litton threw back the first drink in seconds flat, savouring the mellow burn of it down his throat. Then he poured himself another. "What about you? What've you got?"

"I have this sorry hole."

"Yeah. People coming and going. But you're always left to mop up the offal. Alone."

"We're never alone, Mr. Litton."

As though on cue, a figure emerged from the rear door. It was DCI Hunt. He was still fastening his flies, a bit uncoordinatedly, swaying and humming under his breath. "Another pint of bitter, Nelson," he said, but didn't look up. And then, when he did, "Christ. I must be seeing things."

"Fancy meeting you here," said Litton.

Hunt's expression clouded over with the breadth and menace of an August storm. "What in hell d'you think you're doing here?"

"Having a drink. This _is_ a pub. Though from what I hear, it might well be a zoo. Where're the rest of the apes?"

Hunt shook his head, ignoring him. "'S not _your_ pub, Litton."

"There's no sign on the door. Your barman… Nelson, was it? Didn't turn me away."

"Now," said Nelson, plaintively, "t'would be wise to take it easy. Both of you." He set Hunt's drink on the bar. Right beside Litton.

Hunt grabbed up the pint, and with the deliberate concentration of the inebriated, took a stool two spaces down. Litton threw back his second. There was no way he'd let Hunt outdrink him. Besides, he had the clear advantage of easy refills. Already Nelson had begun to work his towel down the bar, leaving them.

"Your regular boozer still shut?" Hunt muttered.

Litton's mouth twitched. It was true: two weeks ago, the Oak and Apple had shut on account of pests. Namely uniform. "Renovations," he said, offhandedly.

"Heard it were rats."

"Yes, well…" There. Three down, easy as you please. Litton eyed the half-empty bottle, then began to pick at the label. 1968 was a shitstorm of a year. "Be empty tonight anyway, wouldn't it? Christmas Eve, Hunt. Time for family. You avoiding anyone in particular?"

Hunt sniffed. "'S a question you should ask yourself. And by 'someone' I mean _you_ , and by 'avoiding' I mean my foot to your arse."

"A swift kick isn't exactly in the spirit of the season."

"Oh no. It'll be long and hard and prob'ly detrimental to your astonishing career as a pillow-biter."

Litton narrowed his eyes. "And where's that boy of yours? Holidaying back in Hyde?"

"You—" Hunt jabbed two fingers forward "—shut up about him."

"Stuck a nerve… Fancy that."

"Concept called respect. Ever heard of it?"

"No."

"You gonna sit here all night?"

"I'm not leaving, if that's what you're asking."

"Mm." Hunt finished his bitter. Then he tugged at his lapels, scratched himself contentedly, and swiveled round to look Litton in the eye. It wasn't exactly unnerving. Litton had stared down countless crims and counterfeiters, prossies and posers. And for the life of him, he couldn't understand how anyone might see Hunt as anything but a common thug. But for an instant, there was something searching in Hunt's gaze, provoked and provoking.

Litton had half a mind to clock him, right there, just for the thrill of it.

But then Hunt pursed his lips and grabbed a clean glass from the other side of the bar. "Pass the bottle," he said.

Litton did.


End file.
